


steady hands

by Lizzen



Category: Snow White and the Huntsman (2012), The Huntsman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6949267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow White remembers when the Huntsman fell to his knees in fealty to her. Oh, how she remembers. And sometimes, memory is all you can really have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	steady hands

**Author's Note:**

> swath is a perennial favorite in chez lizzen so the huntsman: winter's war made me ache in all the wrong places and angrily write this fic because there's no shakin' the otp. SO!!!!! While it's Snow White and the Huntsman fic, feel free to squint and read it as a The Huntsman: Winter's War fic too. Completely unnecessary to see that horrible film, however. 
> 
> my love to m&i <3

Every man falls to his knees after she calls them her brother, and they swear to fight and die for her. She sees them all but her eyes are drawn to him. To the huntsman on his knees for her, yielding his beating heart, and pledging his fealty. She feels the ghost of a kiss against her lips and a heat in her belly but she has a war to wage and an army to lead. 

Still, she locks it in her memory; she will not forget. 

*  
When she marries William, she has him styled as Prince Consort. It is her kingdom, after all. Her lands, her birthright, her destiny. Any woman pitted against Ravenna gains some insight along with tragedy. 

The people call him "your majesty" and "the queen's true love."

(His lips touched hers once and her heart was unmoved.)

Their marriage bed has warmth in it. Her purity, which continues to heal the land, is not sullied by consummation. She likes him, likes the way he moves inside her. She is very fond of him, always has been. And his eyes light up so bright when he sees her. When she kisses him, he sighs so prettily and he no longer tastes of apples.

It's all very nice. 

*  
Sometimes she tires of nice. 

Sometimes she thinks about how he fell to his knees, a man who seldom bows before queens. And it felt like a beautiful gift; it felt good. 

*  
The queen has her own rooms, and they are hers alone. When she rests here, more often than not, she finds pleasure in the dark after she says her prayers. It's an intensely lingering sort of relief; the kind that she can only get from her own hand, where her imagination takes her to the far off expanses of her mind. 

She only thinks of him in these moments. His strong arms and broad hands and thick fingers. His tongue at her neck, fire in his breath. His mouth on hers. His body at her disposal.

Her fantasies are thorough, complicated, and rich. There is heat in her blood when she moves to touch herself. It's always easy when she thinks of him, the heat and weight of his body on hers. The trembling of her limbs becomes the vibrating sensation in her darkest places.

She imagines him a rough lover, imagines him taking her in many ways and fashions. She likes how he feels against her, holding her close to him as he takes his pleasure. She gives as good as she gets, fucking him with abandon in her mind's eye. She's slick from desire and her fingers sometimes miss the mark in the wetness of her cunt, but she always, always finds her completion again, again, and again. 

She imagines him gentle after they're both spent, holding her in his arms with a tightness that makes it hard to breathe. She likes how he kisses her after; sometimes heated kisses that restart the whole pursuit of pleasure, sometimes just sweet reminders of his regard for her. 

Dreamless sleep always follows, such that she never notices if her cheeks are wet from tears. 

*  
She wants him. Supplicants surround her daily but what she wants at her feet is him. 

*  
The queen takes progresses through her spoiled lands and each time her feet touch the ground, the earth blossoms. Trees flower again, and flowers grow fragrant. Her people dance in the streets, their aches and ailments lessened and their harvest bountiful. There is food in their bellies again and women happily bring life into the safety of a saved kingdom. 

"Blessed lady," they call her, and "our most gracious queen." Having spent most her life alone in a tower, she's no courtier; she loves the rebirth of her lands and the feel of a horse between her legs as she rides and the honor of her people's heartfelt love. 

Still, no one fully sees that she too needs healing. 

*  
On her progresses, she continues her nightly ritual and each fantasy turns darker and more heated, the further she's from the castle and the niceties therein. Passion is bright and unwieldy and her clit takes her ferocity. She imagines him rougher, possessive; she imagines his hands touching her everywhere to make his claim, her cunt full of him fit to burst, his coarse words unkind or his silence damning. It's overwhelming and strangely pleasant and perhaps shameful (but the pleasure is hers, and hers alone). She keens into the night air and wishes she knew his name so that she could say it, whisper it, shout it. 

He left her, left her without leaving anything of himself except a memory. 

*  
The huntsman was engineered for war and she for peace. How could things be different?

*  
She watches her courses and takes her husband when there is no danger of conceiving. An heir is the last thing she wants at the moment; she has a kingdom to heal before she can turn her mind to the duty of royal succession. 

As always, William is a good lover; he pays more attention to her desire than his own. He sets a gentle pace and speaks gentle words. It is a sweet sort of lovemaking and her pleasure is a slow, steady sensation that builds and builds and builds into a beautiful release. 

There is warmth in her marriage bed, but no heat. 

*  
It takes her months, but she heals the dark forest with steady hands and feet and the honest strength in her heart. The fairest magic in her blood will not wane; darkness becomes light and terror turns to peace. 

It is in the depths of the woods that she finds the place where she first met the huntsman. Her eyes close and she remembers, oh how she remembers. She had begun to win his fealty here, in this once terrible place. When she opens her eyes, roses red as blood cover the earth around her and fill the air with their perfume. 

She returns triumphant to the castle with flowers woven in her raven hair. And roses serve as her crown.

*  
Time passes and dark events happen at her borders but never threaten the newfound resilience of her lands. She lives and breathes for her kingdom by day and aches in her heart by night. 

And there is no fanfare when a man, with a mirrored ache in his heart, returns to his queen and falls to his knees at her feet. 

The queen holds out her hand and the huntsman kisses it with a hungry reverence. Her knees tremble but the rest of her is still. 

"You have been missed." She reaches for his face. Her fingernails gently run down his cheek.

"My queen," he says. Her heart in her throat, she feels her desire build like an unquenchable fire. 

She could have him now, on the floor, against the stairs, anything. She could take her royal privilege and take him. It's a heady sort of feeling, the dark power she could wield. She feels lightheaded and sways a little in her queenly stance. 

"I would not have you leave my side again, my huntsman," she says at last, and means every word. 

His gaze is thoughtful and she feels consumed by it. "If you command it so, I will stay." 

She takes to her knees as well, so she can look at him straight in the eyes, and so she can be closer to him. Close enough to feel his breath on her face, close enough to kiss. The word is softly said and she feels it rise out of her like a prayer: "Please."

Her hand is still in his, she realizes, as he lifts it again to his lips and kisses her fingers. 

No flame could burn as brightly as the fire in her heart. 

*  
William beams when she tells him the news; after all, his eyes light up so bright when he sees her. 

"A good man, Eric," he says.

She treasures this gift from her husband; a name for the face that hovers over her in her thoughts. A name for the man who now stands at her side in service to the crown. A name she can say in the dark when no one else is listening.

*  
She takes the huntsman to the Sanctuary; she loves the woods and feels renewed by the magic of the sacred place. It's a holiday of sorts; this enchanted land does not need much healing and the creatures who live here are not her subjects. 

They lie next to each other on the grass and stare up at the crystal blue sky and she keeps her mind as pure as she can. The ground swells at her touch, feeding on her energy and the smell of the air is sweeter from her presence. He's never told her why he left, and he doesn’t tell her what he's been up to all this time. But from the scars on his face and the roughness of his hands, she knows it has not been easy. 

She shifts a little so that their shoulders touch, which is innocent enough. She cannot allow herself to follow through on her most innocent of desires: to reach over and take his hand in hers, threading her fingers in his and squeezing tight. There are things she cannot do. 

*  
When they cross a stream, he offers her his hand to take, to steady herself as she walks through water and rock. She laughs in spite of herself, torn between polite refusal and want. "Lass," he growls, looking impatient but fond, and she takes it. His hand is warm and she feels safe for the moment, all too brief, where her fingers grip his own. 

She lets go just after it would be prudent to do so, and feels empty at the loss and foolish at the sentiment. Fool, fool, fool, she thinks and does not see the heat in his gaze.

*  
William and the huntsman spar often, not that either have wars to wage for her anymore, but it brings them joy in the sport and competition. And the huntsman is kind to him, for they have spilt blood together and shared tragedy together. 

She watches them and wonders at her strange heart.

*  
In the pain of being so close to him, the dark passion of the queen's fancy wanes. Her nights are cold and her sleep is filled with terrors that wake her constantly. She forsakes her marriage bed and often walks in the wee hours of the morning, feeling unsteady. 

When the nights turn frozen, she walks the castle instead of the grounds and more than once finds herself next to him. "Sleep is for children," he says and she nods. They sit by whatever is the closest fire they can find; the kitchen more often than not. They talk when they want to talk, but mostly sit silently together. It's comforting, the shared silence and his presence alone is warming. 

She finds that she loves him, and it's less a heady, dangerous desire and more of a pure truth. The realization does not lessen the ache in her belly or diminish how her heart races when she is close to him. 

Sometimes, especially when he smiles at her, she wishes him miles away. 

*  
Her husband never mentions the coldness of their bed when he kisses her cheek and brings her gifts of flowers or fruit (never apples). She enjoys his presence and values his wise counsel. He is gentle and content, and the people still call him the queen's true love. 

*  
The dwarves visit more often now that the huntsman has returned, and the palace is roused by music and good cheer and rich dwarven spirits. 

In a quiet corner, Muir takes her hand in his and is silent for a long moment. He nods knowingly. "Child," he says, "he has eyes." 

She looks up to catch the huntsman's gaze across the noisy room. There is a pain that flares up in her heart. 

Muir chuckles. "Heal yourself, my queen."

That night, she does something she's never done before: dances with the huntsman as the violins strike a happy tune. They're terrible dancers but it's happiness unlike she's ever felt. The tempo is merry and their feet fly and they cling tightly to one another. He follows her lead in every step and when she smiles, he smiles back. 

She looks to William and there is still light in his eyes when he sees her, even when dancing with another man; he's a strange thing. Her fondness for him, which is deep as an ancient well, grows. 

"More," she says, looking to the musicians and to the dwarves and to the huntsman and all are willing and eager to oblige the queen's wishes. 

*  
That night, the huntsman follows her to her chambers and her heart stutters as he pushes her doors open, enters. It's a bold act, unsettling but not unsavory. Not unwanted.

"God forgive me, you're a married woman, lass. And a queen too." 

She shuts the doors and leans against them for strength. 

"Why did you come, then?"

He is silent but she sees his eyes and understands. 

All this time she imagined him the aggressor and even in this, he yields her the power. The rough voice of her fantasy was always hers. 

"Come."

And he does. Kneels at her feet. Ravenna's legacy is ash in her mouth but this is fealty freely given. The doors are not locked. 

His hands find her ankle and he slides his fingers up, warm and rough, up her leg to find her knee. 

"I could send you away, and into fire and flame."

"I would go. Without question."

His fingers softly caress her skin and his mouth is against her skirts. She can hear him breathe. 

She remains still against her doorframe and breathes herself calm before she can slide to the ground, to face him. When she entwines her fingers in his, she seals her fate. His hand is so warm. 

She holds him with her eyes and then she kisses him as if spelled, as if she must. The sweet kiss of a sovereign to her most beloved knight turns into that of a woman and her lover, and she burns inside from the heat of it. She's clutching at him, one hand in his clothes and the other tangled in his hair. She claims him with her lips and there is a delicate softness in his returning kiss. 

She pulls away right when she realizes she can never have enough of his mouth, she can never be content even with a thousand kisses. 

Snow White asks: "Do I have your heart?"

Eric replies: "Always." 

*  
It's not as quick as she'd like, not as quick as she's fantasized many times, but she gets him in her bed without a stitch on and her mouth is open from laughing and gasping for air. 

She could have him immediately, his dick is thick and heavy and ready for her, but he has other ideas. Holding her legs apart with a firm gentleness, he spends an inordinate time kissing her most secret places. There's an insatiable heat coiled inside her, and as he slides his tongue against her clit, her whole body thrums with the rising pleasure. A heady sort of release takes her first, and she comes in a steady, lingering sensation that flourishes and builds till it breaks. It's a long time before she can breathe and think clearly. 

She had imagined him a rough lover, good at what he does, but the reality is so much more satisfying. Sweet is the word that comes to mind, but this is not sweet; she doesn't feel sweet. She feels wanton and beloved and consumed and cherished. 

His fingers enter her and she gasps out, surprised, and it's moments before he's got her humming again, her hands grasping at sheets. "God save us," she gasps as she comes again and then his mouth is back on her.

"No, no, I want strength for – no." He grins into her thigh and marks her there with a sucking kiss against her skin. She keens from the sensation and considers allowing him to pleasure her all night with his mouth between her legs. She always knew there was a difference between a man and her own hand; but it is even more different because it was him. 

He pulls her into his lap, her sex against his and there he kisses her mouth, his wet lips soft against her. It's simply maddening; she cannot have enough of his kisses. His fingers tweak her nipple, playing there till she's gasping again just from his touch. He bends his head and sucks at it, hard and sharp till she sighs, her clit aching to be touched again. 

Impatient, she adjusts so that he can enter her if he wishes. She says his name and his dark eyes meet hers. "Lass," he says, low and deep and she wants him, how she wants him. With her legs around him, she pulls him in until he's hilt deep inside her, and is rewarded as he groans her name. Her head rolls back and he kisses her offered neck, wet sucking kisses in her sensitive places. And when she can breathe again, she finds a good rhythm to ride him. He makes an indecent sort of noise and it's lovely, so lovely to be the cause of it all. 

Soon, it's not enough to be cradled in his arms, so she pushes him down on the bed so she can have better flexibility to fuck him as hard as she wants. Her skin feels flushed and her body is exhausted but she will have him come inside her, and wishes it was such that she could have him multiple times a night. She laughs at this, merry and almost spent, and half closes her eyes to just revel in the moment. 

He is becoming a shell of a man as she continues, his voice diminished to sighs and growls and her name. She is relentless and she is urging him on with unqueenly words. Watching with eyes wide open now, she can see him fall apart, lose himself in her ungentle care. Shuddering hard against her, he comes and while she aches inside, she rides him all the way until he's finished, dazed and weak.

Her heart soars. It's done and he is hers. 

While he may be massive, she can encircle him in her arms. She listens to him breathe shakily in the night air, finding peace in silence. He takes her hand in his and presses it to his mouth. "Will there be other nights like this?" he says quietly, barely a rumble out of his chest. She holds on tight as an answer. 

*  
In the morning, it's the first day of spring.

She rides out alone along the beach and bathes in the cold waters, bringing the sea the blessing of fairest blood. Her body numbs but nothing can quench the burning embers in her heart now. She is content, she is content.


End file.
